


Fallen Idol and True Bitch

by ConvenientAlias



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/F, Love/Hate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 03:34:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12572836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConvenientAlias/pseuds/ConvenientAlias
Summary: It wasn't a very popular opinion, but Christine always admired Carlotta. Until, that is, she had to actually work with her, and realized it was living hell.





	Fallen Idol and True Bitch

Christine always used to admire La Carlotta.

She knew it was not the most popular opinion for a chorus girl—quite the opposite. While the public adored Carlotta most of the people around the opera house called her, at best, a huge bitch and a diva. She was always calling for one thing and another, pushing the managers to make changes to the score, the schedule, the costumes, the set, and generally causing far too much trouble. It wouldn’t have been put up with were it anyone else. But Carlotta was popular and Carlotta was good so people sighed and got used to it.

Christine didn’t sigh, though. She admired Carlotta, for a couple different reasons. First, it was a little amusing to see someone win against the managers so often, the managers being immovable to anyone else including even Christine’s own menacing teacher. Second, and more importantly, she loved Carlotta’s voice. The way it trilled high, rolling the long notes for emphasis. The slight Spanish accent. The vibration whenever she went low. The sheer power and volume she could get out of her throat, night after night without ceasing. It was astonishing. One had to sympathize with her fans, rather than her detractors.

(Third, and most embarrassingly, she’d once seen Carlotta almost entirely naked when she walked in on her in the dressing room by accident. But she liked to think that didn’t influence her opinion, even if the view had been good. After all, this was an opera house—there were plenty of lovely bodies around, but still only one Carlotta.)

So Christine would always argue in Carlotta’s defense whenever Meg or Little Jammes or any of the other girls would mock her. She would even argue Carlotta’s case against Erik.

“She squawks like an angry eagle,” Erik said one evening. “I hate every moment I have to put up with her on my stage. Every single…”

“She does have spectacular diction, though, and a very good ear,” Christine countered. “And her style is very dramatic and very popular.”

Erik gave her a sharp look. “I won’t have you imitating her.”

“Oh, no. My voice is very different, so there would be no point. Besides, you are my teacher. Still, you have to admit…”

It was an argument that repeated time and time again, with person after person. Christine considered herself one of Carlotta’s greatest advocates, and was a little proud that she could manage to be artistically objective about her. This was her attitude until she was cast as Siebel in Faust and they actually had to work together.

It was then that she realized that working with Carlotta was living hell.

They didn’t even sing that many songs together. Christine’s longest song, the jewel song, happened with Carlotta offstage. And yet in rehearsals, Carlotta still stood off to the side and called out critique.

Christine was too sharp. Christine was too flat. Christine was too loud. Christine was too quiet. Christine wasn’t pronouncing her consonants. Christine was too short with her vowels. And when the singing critique ended, she began critiquing Christine’s body language instead. Christine needed to stop fidgeting. Christine needed to loosen up her body. Christine’s posture should be more masculine. Christine didn’t need to thrust out her hips and chest like a whore. Christine’s shoulders should be back…no, forward…no, back…no, forward…

She kept on expecting that the director would cut in and tell Carlotta to stop. After all, several times Carlotta interrupted Christine in the middle of singing. And when she didn’t, she would give her criticisms when Christine was done before the director could get a word in edgewise. Surely he couldn’t approve. But he would wait patiently for Carlotta to finish before giving his own advice, and he rarely contradicted her.

Christine tried to argue back. But Carlotta would only talk over her, getting louder and louder rather than using logic or actually listening. The chorus girls gave her sympathetic looks and said nothing, for all they would chatter about it later on.

But, Christine thought, Carlotta had never been quite this bad before, had she? Not with a fellow singer in a major part. No, her spite seemed particularly pointed towards Christine. And that hurt more than anything. After all, she had rather hoped that through these roles together they might grow close. A foolish dream, but still.

So for weeks of rehearsals she tried to be patient, to listen to Carlotta’s jabs and harsh criticism and sometimes outright insults without complaint. And she thought that on opening night it all paid off. She went onstage. She sang her part, exactly as the past few weeks had trained her to do, perfectly poised and prepared. And the audience loved her, and they loved Carlotta, and they cheered and they cheered.

So maybe that was it. Carlotta had been preparing her to please a crowd. She had been harsh, but ultimately a good teacher. Erik could be odd in his methods too. Christine could forgive.

She took a bouquet from her dressing room—a gift from an admirer—and headed down to Carlotta’s room as soon as she could. There, she found Carlotta taking off her makeup. But when she saw Christine, she immediately put her cloth down and turned away from the mirror.

“What do you want?”

Christine coughed. She closed the door behind her. “I wanted to say thank you. You have been an amazing mentor to me these past few weeks. So I am grateful for your guidance.”

Carlotta stared at her. After a long pause, she let out a harsh laugh. It sounded as sharp as it might have onstage, as exquisitely formed and projected. “Is there something wrong with you?”

Christine flushed. “I am sorry if I disturbed you…”

“I,” Carlotta said, “am not your mentor. I have never tried to guide you. I am not your _friend_. Why would you come to me after the show?” When she saw Christine was not going to answer, she asked, “Do you want to gloat? Is that it? You think you can come in here with your delicate little niceties…”

“I will leave if you want—”

“And thank me? Are you mad?” Carlotta stood. “Who do you think you are?”

So.

Christine pressed her lips together. She had tried so hard to be nice. But it wasn’t worth it. Carlotta wasn’t worth it.

“I am a singer who will someday be as good as you,” she said. “And you know it.”

“I know no such thing. You are nothing but a…”

“Attractive girl who is younger than you and will someday be better,” Christine said. She could tell by the look in Carlotta’s eyes that she had hit the mark. Anger, fear, jealousy all intermingled—it was what the ballerinas and chorus girls always said about her but Christine always tried not to listen, tried to believe. “So maybe you should show me some respect.”

Carlotta snarled.

“I used to like you,” Christine said. “I admired you. But you’re really just petty and scared and mean and desperate. Everything about you is fake.” Stepping closer, she put a hand on Carlotta’s hip. She looked her in the eyes and smiled, wondering if it looked like she meant it, like she wasn’t trembling underneath.  “The only real thing you have going for you is that you sleep with the patrons for money and support.”

(She might have been trembling but her voice remained steady. It was easy to lace it with spite and scorn and disdain, much easier than she would have expected. All she had to do was imitate Carlotta.)

Carlotta grabbed her arms. Christine expected her to push her back but she didn’t. She only gripped tight, painfully tight. She stared at her for a moment, wild-eyed, and Christine expected her to hit her in the face or shove her to the ground or do something, anything, to draw blood. Instead, a slow smile spread across her face. “Good girl,” she said. And she let Christine go.

Christine stumbled back, confused. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Always so quiet, always so innocent,” Carlotta said. She laughed, thoroughly composed again. “I know what you think of me. So now you’ve stopped lying.” She grinned. “I like this you better. But you should know something. I am mean and I am shallow and fake and desperate. Just like you said.” Casually she removed a pin from her hair and placed it on the desk. “You are not like me. Before you come after the tiger, grow some teeth.”

Christine waited to see if she would say anything else. Waited to see if there was anything else that she herself wanted to say. But there was nothing. She turned to leave, but Carlotta snagged her wrist.

Christine snatched it back. “You’ll find I have teeth enough.”

Carlotta stepped closer. She was ever so slightly taller than Christine, so she always loomed a little bit when they stood near each other. With a smirk imprinted on her eyes and mouth she leaned in and deliberately planted a kiss on Christine’s lower lip.

Christine froze.

“You were right that I sleep with patrons too,” Carlotta murmured in her ear. “Everyone knows that. But they talk that way because they’re jealous. You, for example…” She stepped back, brushing a lock of hair away from Christine’s face. “…you wouldn’t even know how.”

With that, she pushed Christine to the door. And when Christine had stepped out, she slammed it closed.

Christine could feel the heat in her face. She had been humiliated…but why should she be ashamed that she didn’t know anything about sex? It was Carlotta who should be ashamed really, a slut who opened her legs for any…

God.

She really did sound like one of the chorus girls now. Or maybe like Carlotta. Angry, scared, desperate and mean. Angry because she’d been insulted. Mean because she was angry. And scared and desperate because her heartbeat was faster than it had ever been around Erik and Raoul, and there was a heat between her legs that rose to answer it, and Carlotta was the one person in all this world who shouldn’t make her feel this way.

She turned around and walked back to her dressing room, cursing in her head.

**Author's Note:**

> Guys I'm sorry for the title I just  
> couldn't help myself  
> sorry.  
> But anyways. This piece is a little mishmash. I just wanted to throw out one final oneshot before Nanowrimo because I won't be able to write fanfic for a while. And so I wrote some Carlotta/Christine. And the more I write this couple the bitchier they get... I don't know why, maybe it's the time of night. Or maybe I just like my love/hate relationships.  
> Christine and Carlotta are #it'scomplicated.  
> Lols. I wonder if they will hook up? Anyways. I hope you enjoyed. Talk to me in the comments or find me on tumblr at convenientalias.


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